"But remember this," he continued, warningly. "I have your promise, given to me solemnly, and that promise I will yet claim. This man may recover; but, if he does, it will only be to despise you. His abhorrence will be the only reward that you can expect for your passion and your mad self-sacrifice. But even if it were possible for him to love you--yes, to love you as you love him--even then you could not have him. For I live; and while I live you could never be his: No, never. I have your promise, and I will come between you and him to sunder you forever and to cast you down. That much, at least, I can do, and you know it. "And now farewell for the present. In any event you will need me again. I shall go to Chetwynde Castle, and wait there till I am wanted. The time will yet come, and that soon, when you will again wish my help. I will give you six months to try to carry out this wild plan of yours. At the end of that time I shall have something to do and to say; but I expect to be needed before then. If I am needed, you may rely upon me as before. I will forget every injury and be as devoted as ever." With these ominous words Gualtier withdrew. Hilda sank back in her chair exhausted, and sat for some time pressing her hand on her heart. At length she summoned her strength, and, rising to her feet, she walked feebly through several rooms. Finally she reached one which was darkened. A bed was there, on which lay a figure. The figure was quite motionless; but her heart told her who this might be. CHAPTER LIV. NURSING THE SICK.